


Black Poppies for my Love

by girlwithaknifeinherboot



Category: The Grisha Trilogy - Leigh Bardugo
Genre: (wannabe)Dectective Alina, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Blood and Violence, F/M, Jack the Ripper Murders, Murder Mystery, Poor Life Choices, This is an AU, but I had to post it, but no promises, i've been reading books set in the victorian era, if you're from my other work i'm so sorry, it may be sordid, it was a strong urge, romance may happen, romance will probably happen, romance will undoubtedly happen, the characters have different roles, this may not get updated again ops, this tagging feature should be taken away from me, whodunit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-14
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-10-18 03:44:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20632550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlwithaknifeinherboot/pseuds/girlwithaknifeinherboot
Summary: A late-night proposal from a strange man plucks Alina from her sheltered life at a home for orphan girls and thrusts her into the lap of luxury and the line of fire of a heinous killer. As she discovers who and who not to trust, Alina learns a lethal lesson - monsters may end hearts, but they can also steal them.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In the Victorian language of flowers, black poppies mean death, hatred, farewell, rejuvenation or rebirth.

It was an ordinary London evening. Alina lay curled between clean linen sheets, thumbing through the torn, yellowed pages of The Mysteries of Midnight, torrential swaths of rain and the flickering of the candle flame from the adjacent beside table creating just the right ambiance for late-night murderers. Rather, murderesses. With excitement that belied her tired, aching eyes, she pressed on, hungry for more of the words that painted such an unduly violent image. Surely, it was gratuitous, not polite for young ladies such as herself to fill their tender minds with. Or so she’d been informed.

A few more pages and she’d call it a night. It was late enough as it were, Mrs. Kuya would be apt to point out her unladylike, low-brow undereye circles in the morning. That bat never missed a moment of chastising. The pleasures of the flesh were immoral and unappealing to the dour matron. No, instead she carved enjoyment out of her pupils and charges, their discomfort infinitely amusing. It was an interesting observation that good Christian women were so commonly sadistic in nature.

Stifling a most indelicate yawn and stretching out like a cat, Alina turned onto her back to alleviate the crick in her neck. In her efforts to find comfort, she nearly missed the sound of clanking metal keys outside her bedchamber door. The hinges creaked, the latch lifted, and it had Alina scrambling like mad to thrust The Mysteries of Midnight under the covers and instead grasp the Holy Bible off the end table from its wax dripped perch near the candle. She sat up, holding it in front of her awkwardly and flipping to a random place.

Perhaps knowing herself discovered from hearing the rustle of sheets or a dance of the shadows, Mrs. Ana Kuya called out, “Alina, dear girl, what in Heaven’s name are you doing up at this hour?”

She wanted to ask the noisy matron what she were doing up at such an hour, but she did not dare. “Reading, Mrs. I want to be able to recall my verses during recital.”

Mrs. Kuya hmphed. “Will you be reciting them backward? That Bible is upside-down.”

Cursed below, this was the one bat with wretchedly good eyesight. Alina gave a pink-cheeked smile, turning the book in the correct direction. She had nothing to say, so she remained silent, awaiting the interrogation to follow. Imagine the surprise when none arrived.

Mrs. Kuya instead remained to hover at the door. There wasn’t an ounce of consternation in her features—it was apprehension. Alina’s heart did a little lurch.

“Has someone died?” she inquired. An untimely death was the only thing that could cast such grave anxiety on the madam’s face. Alina could recall when sweet Elisabeth drowned those many years ago, Mrs. Kuya had, for once, been stricken.

“How morbid.” She snapped. “Must you always be so morbid? It isn’t becoming, dear.”

That was more like it. Alina settled back down.

Mrs. Kuya continued, “I’m afraid you cannot go back to sleep. There is a matter in the library that requires your immediate attention.”

Had she committed any sins in the library of late? If she had, she found she could not remember, and if she had, it was unlike the matron to enact vengeance in the wee hours of the night. Something was greatly amiss.

Alina rose, forgetting about the secret novel tucked away in her sheets, and snatched up her dressing gown. She laced its front with clammy hands. She made haste to follow Mrs. Kuya down the hallway of the girls' dormitory, noticing the way the older lady kept a tension about her that whitened the knuckles and crinkled the eyes about their edges. She marched at a brisk pace, not bothering to grace Alina with so much as a backward glance. Indeed, it were as if the lack of acknowledgment bore a pointed edge. Mrs. Kuya did little by accident—Alina wrung her hands, stomach gnawing itself with worry.

No girl had ever been evicted from the benevolent shelter of Saint Mary’s Home for Distinguished Young Ladies. A bubble of unease brewed up within her—Mrs. Kuya did often pronounce Alina as “singularly gifted in vexatious mischief and flagrant unrepentance.” In addition to those honors, the once thought unachievable due of being relieved of haven and home, trying at times though the quarters may be, seemed to be looming on the horizon. Why else would the matron demand a meeting two ticks past the witching hour? She probably thought it a small mercy that none of the others would witness the second most ultimate fall from grace.

The doors to the library appeared, dark and foreboding varnished wood with heavy brass handles. Alina loved those handles, and now they leered at her with the glinting of the light from the lantern in Mrs. Kuya’s withered hand. Mrs. Kuya began to push past them, a crack of red and orange ghostly-like glowing emerging from within. It was no doubt from the behemoth of a hearth that sat betwixt the two lines of shelving that spanned the angled room, floor to ceiling, but to Alina it as may as well have been hellfire. She broke, snatching Mrs. Kuya’s black, puffed out sleeve and a death glare.

“Whatever I’ve done this time, Mrs. Kuya, I am deeply remorseful.” She injected all the genuine feeling she could collect and then feign into her words, “Please, let me know what deed I’ve committed to anger you to such a point so that I may begin to try to make amends. I… well, I can’t possibly bear to leave the home you’ve given me, and it is such a good home, and you—”

Mrs. Kuya, with the free hand not clutching the lantern in a stern grip, clasped one of Alina’s. it wasn’t in cruelty or warning but of warmth. Alina came up short, gaping.

“This is for the best, dear. I—” she examined Alina from bare feet to untidy, unbrushed hair, “Well, the truth of it is I’m proud of what you’ve become. I believe this is a burden you can bear and bear well.” The woman blinked quickly and glanced away. “Now chin up and remember your manners.” Hand still entrapped in hers and feeling absolutely slapped, Alina had no choice but to allow the doors of the library to swallow her up and then seal her fate behind her.

The room had not a single light to illuminate it except for the roaring fire burning under the mantle that held crosses and photographs and flowers and books. It cast shadows to frolic over the domed ceiling, and they chased each other, hungry. It made the room appear towering, cavernous and empty, much like the way the bottom dropping out of her heart made her feel. In the midst of this, top hat all but crushed in his grip, sat a paling elderly gentleman on the velvet of the reading settee. His face was blank, eyes purple as hers underneath and set into the flames, a million leagues away. He had failed to notice them.

Alina shot a pleading and confused look to Mrs. Kuya, who coughed primly from her throat. The man didn’t move a muscle.

With the barest traces of irritation, Mrs. Kuya intoned, “Lord Keramzin.”

He jumped to attention, knees locking on the way up. His poor hat was most surely ruined beyond wearability. “Ladies,” he croaked and cleared his throat, “ladies, apologies, I—I did not hear you come in.” He bowed crookedly from the waist. “Apologies.”

Ignoring that, Mrs. Kuya’s grasp tightened around Alina’s wrist. “This is Alina.”

The man paused. He ambled closer, the ornate cane she now noticed scraping across the floor inch by inch. She felt it reflected up her spine with spiking dread. What felt like long minutes later, he stood in front of them—of her. His bushy eyebrows, nearly as robust as his whitened mustache, twitched. Alina looked to her feet, bare and peeking out from under her dressing gown.

“Oh.” Lord Keramzin said, his voice scratchy and almost a whisper, “She’s awfully young.”

Mrs. Kuya bristled at her side. “Alina is quite… mature for her years. She is widely read, aren’t you, dear?”

Suddenly, she found herself lacking the ability to speak—if she did, she knew she would find herself disproving how mature she was being made out to be. She would cry and toss a fit and refuse this exchange. For all the wily wicked things Mrs. Kuya could have done to her, she never expected to be sold off like livestock to a man closer to the grave than Alina’s own age in the middle of the godforsaken night. How vile, how inappropriate. She ought to tell them so.

She meekly nodded her head.

The fellow peered at her with watery, reddened eyes. “My Evie adored reading.” He smiled, weakly. “She would miss all three meals of the day only to be found in the library, not so unlike this one.”

Alina recoiled as gently as she could. Either this man had a previous wife, one who had died, not a surprising bit of speculation considering his years, or a daughter her age. Both struck her uncomfortably.

A response of some sort had been expected because the silence that descended after he spoke dragged on.

“Lord Keramzin, why don’t you discuss with Alina your offer? I will be here, by the hearth. These dreary nights do so chill my bones.”

She clung to the woman tightly, but she extracted herself, stepping away with a vigor that Alina felt could be better used to fight for life when she wrapped her hands around that traitorous, laced up throat. To curb the urges befitting a scene from The Mysteries of Midnight, she curled her fingers into the cool fabric of her dressing gown and looked the man in his strange, sad eyes. He blinked at her as if he were startled.

“I believe,” she urged her voice not to tremble, “you had an offer for me, sir?”

“Ah, yes. I—” he appraised her, and Alina should have felt affronted but lacking from his countenance was any sort of passion, excitement, or undue interest. She may as well have been a piece of furniture. She wasn’t sure if it were a relief or if it angered her further.

He hesitated, drew back, and seemed to visibly wither. This offer was, perhaps, more offensive to him than to her. “This requires a bit of pretext, miss. You see, I—” he stopped again, and she felt impatient. He placed his squashed hat over his heart, “My daughter, my beloved Evie, has died. She was murdered,” he appeared sick and Alina felt taken aback at his words, “and it is my truest fear that someone very close to her was the hand of the evil.” The first hint of strong emotion he’d yet displayed crept into his features. “I must know for sure. I must have the truth.”

He looked to her as if he’d forgotten and just remembered her presence. “Have you read any of the Penny Blood novels, miss?”

Had she.

She spared a glance to Mrs. Kuya, who was putting on a very poor show of pretending to be hard of hearing. “I may have read a few of those periodicals.”

He steeled himself, plowing ahead with grim determination despite the grief that hung from his shoulders like a shroud of stone. Knowing about his daughter…the loss he must feel was now plainly visible. “I’m afraid I’m going to ask that you help me act out one of our very own. I know it is an odd request. An obscene one some would say, to ask this of a young lady, but miss, I am at the ends of my wit. I need this mystery, this trial of my sanity, laid to rest, and I cannot do it alone. What do you say?”

But this was an evening. Alina went from reading a book on the subject matter of heinous murder to being asked by, from his title and suit, an affluent gentleman to aid him in solving one. To think she mistook it for a lewd marriage proposal.

“I’ll admit, Lord Keramzin, I am shocked, and I would love to help you avenge your daughter, but I’m not sure what I might be able to do. I’m no constable. I’m—” Alina swallowed her pride, “I’m only an orphan, sir.”

His mustache wobbled. “You, dear girl, are just what I need. I came here for someone with a desire for truth, someone curious and brave—Mrs. Kuya said you were the candidate. What cares do I have for a good last name?” he smiled most kindly, “Afterall, I already have one.” He held out his hand to shake.

Alina felt warm at the words Mrs. Kuya had spoken about her. It was always her assumption that the woman held a particular distaste for her in favor of the girls who wore the mask of propriety more easily. Perhaps she’d been wrong. Perhaps she could accomplish this feat, this wonderfully morbid adventure.

Rising her chin a touch higher, she took his hand, clasping it firmly. “I’ll do it, sir. I shall do my absolute best to bring out the truth regarding the circumstances of your daughter’s passing.”

He clapped his palms together, energy now revitalized compared to that of his state when she had first entered the library. “Excellent. Come now, Lady detective, go gather your things. We’re due at the family home by the first crack of dawn. This retched mystery will be dissipated at once.”

~*~

* * *

~*~

He’d not lied. As soon as she’d cobbled together a bag of her most essential possessions, which were, all in all, not much, Lord Keramzin had whisked her away into a shiny yet unremarkable coach with a silent, rain-sodden driver, and that was that. Alina had scarcely managed to get out a goodbye to the frightening but surprising woman who’d stood sentinel over her gray childhood. Ana Kuya was not a mother-figure, but she was the closest thing Alina would ever come to one. A slight ache, pangs of uncertainty, plagued her at leaving the only home she could rightly remember. That was the horrid thing about making quick decisions concerning one’s life—you could so instantly regret it or worst still, not be able to name the sly emotions that rose at all.

Across the padded seats from her, Lord Keramzin poked her with his cane. “Look out the window. We have arrived.”

Pushing back the frilly curtain obscuring her view, she laid her eyes on it. Lord Keramzin’s family home was larger than even Saint Mary’s, but where Saint Mary’s was oft barren, practical, this dwelling reflected grandeur. With tiers, spirals, porches, and columns to spare, the dark building had angles that snagged the mind—it was a place that asked, no, demanded, look. But taking up the entirety of a few blocks of precious London real estate wasn’t its only special feature, this home was also newly built. She would put the girls’ home at a solid century senior. Interesting, considering Lord Keramzin was quite old. She would not have pegged him to have recently come into his money, and he seemed like an estate in the country would have suited him more.

“Is this your only establishment?” she asked.

He looked at her curiously and laughed. “Is it that homely?”

Alina ducked her head. She must have sounded so entitled. “Of course not. It’s lovely, and new. I was wondering if you and Evie might’ve lived somewhere different, before this one was finished being built.”

At the mention of his daughter’s name, a tint of melancholy came over him, and she wanted to kick herself for not being more tactful. Mrs. Kuya would blanch.

“Yes,” he said, “I have an estate, Briar Hill, in the country.” He became quiet and still for a moment. “Evie preferred the city, you see. She wanted to socialize, for all the good that did her.”

Alina crossed her gloved hands on her lap, not feeling entirely in her element. “I’m sorry.”

Lord Keramzin shook himself. “It is a sorry thing, but you and I—we’ll right it.” He rapped the coach door with his cane, and it was pulled open, a handsome young man with sloppily cut dark hair dressed in work clothes on the other side. “Mal,” Lord Keramzin greeted, tipping his still deformed hat.

Mal had a spot of dirt on his face, but it did nothing to disguise the open curiosity he displayed at seeing her in the carriage. He fumbled, offering her a hand, which she took as to be polite, and stepped gingerly onto the ground. His grip was gentle, and she thought it quite impetuous he didn’t immediately release her. She peered into his face, and he blushed.

“Mal,” the lord of the house said, taking her hand away from him, “This is my great-niece, Miss Alina Keramzin.” He turned on his heel, moving fairly quickly for an elderly man with a cane. “She’ll be visiting with us throughout the season. If you will, fetch her bags and bring them to the Green Room.”

“An honor meeting you, Miss Keramzin,” Mal called as they ascended the railed steps to the porch.

They were already almost through the door before Alina could get out a brief likewise, a bit puzzled over Lord Keramzin’s sudden energy. It could be chalked up to the excitement of moving forward in his designs to investigate his daughter’s murder, a murder that she’d yet to receive any details on. That would soon change—he had plans to discuss it after she was settled into her room.

Forgoing the elaborate eagle head knocker—it was, after all, his own home—he pushed open the door, and Alina was greeted with a well-lit and lush interior that seemed unmatching and somehow perfectly suited to the gothic beauty of the home’s outside glamor. They walked across a blood-red carpet danced through with gold floral motifs, the runner of which also went up an impressively sized staircase made from dark shining wood. The same wood comprised the baseboards and decorative trim that snaked about each circular arch of doorway. A twinkling chandelier with dangling black crystal made the stain glass window from the top of the stairs shin like a scene from an unorthodox depiction of the virgin mother, though it was doubtful tit was supposed to be Mary. With each splash of color and geometric shape of glass, it crafted an image of a raven-haired woman, blue tears rolling down her painted cheeks and hands clasped about the barbed stem of a rose.

He must have noticed her gawking. At her side, he sighed, “Evie’s late mother. The lights of my life, the two of them.”

And how dark his life must be without them. Here Alina was, gaping at his riches, when the things he loved most were stripped from him. She felt at a loss for words, but words weren’t of much aid when actions were preferred.

Light from the outside streaming in from behind them, the servant boy Mal appeared, her two meager bags in each hand. If he was wondering why a lady traveled with so little, he did not show it. Alina could feel his gaze on her.

Lord Keramzin waved a hand towards the stairs. “To the Green Room, Mal, please.”

He passed them silently, trudging up the stairs until he rounded the corner past the stained glass and disappeared from view. A few moments later there was a slam of a door that sounded through the floor above.

“That boy.” Lord Keramzin shook his head, taking Alina’s arm. “We shall go to the study. There is much to discuss.”

She allowed herself to be led, eager to hear the details of her hence-called detective work. The study was not far off, one of the doors near the foyer on the left. It was set with a similar theme to the rest of the house she’d seen.

Lord Keramzin pulled out a chair for her on the opposing side of his monster of a desk and next lowered himself into the one behind it with a bit of grunting. “My knees,” he said, pouring himself a hearty dose of the amber liquid from a crystal decanter. “I suppose you don’t drink?”

Alina shook her head primly in case this was a test of her character. “Of course not.”

“Sweet temperance,” he smiled, taking a swig. “This is what gets me through these cruel days, I’m more than sorry to say. And on to that sordid subject, I suppose you have questions. Fire at will.”

She considered. Asking too many may seem presumptuous, asking for gruesome details seemed most insensitive. Best to start with something safe. “Thank you for candor, sir. When did your daughter pass?”

He took another drink. “Two months ago, in October. That was a hellish time for me. For us all.”

Alina tried to look gravely serious and empathetic at once. “Us all?”

“The household, the servants and I, my closest friends and associates, all of whom loved Evie nearly. She had this light about her, you see. People came to her like moths. She was so warm, so endlessly loving.” He swished the tumbler about, thick gray brows drawing in. As a dark afterthought, he added, “And there is her betrothed.”

The way he’d said it caught her interest—there was an accusation in his tone. “Her betrothed?”

“Oh yes.” He nodded sagely, gesturing about the room at large, “The very same man who designed and built this house you see around you, this work of art.” His moustache shook. “That’s what he called Evie, too—his work of art.”

Continuing to tug on this particular thread, she dared to ask, “What do you think of the architect? Your personal opinion.”

Lord Keramzin stared at her with a burning intensity, and she feared he would fly into a rage instead of answering. “I think—he’s a brilliant man, but he’s cold. He’s got an unkindness in him, and if I could go back in time, I would have rather sold my soul than give him my daughter’s hand.” The rage seemed to escape him, and he deflated, slumping back into his chair. “Perhaps I did, sell my soul that is. There is something unnatural about that man.”

That was wholly intriguing. Who was this dark architect to evoke his such claims from an otherwise, or from what she’d seen, reasonable man? He was now her first suspect, and she vowed to find out.

“This architect, do you have him under suspicion?”

“He is the only suspect, and I would not be surprised to find out he’s also the twisted perpetrator behind those deranged Ripper murders over in Whitechapel.”

Alina sat in stunned silence at that. Those murders were all London could breathe about for months—there was a palpable fear over who might be next, how horrible the next one may be. If Miss Evie Keramzin had died the way those poor women had in Whitechapel, she had not left this world peacefully. The fear she must have felt was unfathomable.

When Lord Keramzin had said his daughter was murdered, she imagined something along the lines of a poisoning or perhaps a smothering. Nothing so violent, nothing so crass as what she stared down the barrel of now.

In a voice that did not betray her racing thoughts, she asked, “What, exactly, makes you think that?”

“Well, the last Ripper murder was in November. Evie died in October, in the midst of that spree.” Perhaps sensing her disclination to follow that implication, he hmphed, “How many monsters do you think run about taking the lives of innocent young women in our city? Surely not more than one depraved killer is on the loose, else I fear it may be the end times.”

That certainly was a claim. Internally, she decided the murderer of Miss Evie was more than likely not Jack the Ripper, but she made sure to not reflect that outwardly at the risk of offending her benefactor. “If you believe this to be the case, surely this is news Scotland Yards would greatly benefit from.”

His abrupt guffaw startled her. “Morozova has them around his finger, like black magic I tell you.”

“Morozova?”

“Aleksander Morozova, the architect of both my home and my daughter’s demise.”

Bold claims. Alina wasn’t sure if she wanted to meet this purportedly homicidal house builder or not. And if she did, what on earth was she supposed to do with him, politely inquire of whether he used his tools for murder in addition to construction? “And how do you plan on catching this sordid fellow if the authorities don’t consider him a threat?”

“A well-placed trap, my dear, of which you are the perfect lure. He’s down a fiancée, he’s more than likely on the prowl for yet another unfortunate victim, and he has no reason to suspect I might be on to him.”

Oh, sweet Heavens above, she was bait. She cleared her suddenly very itchy throat. “All well and good, sir, but how am I supposed to make him interested in me? I’ve heard killers such as that have select criteria for their prey.”

Lord Keramzin looked very mischievous, he may as well have been rubbing his hands together in fiendish glee. “It won’t be hard. I’ve invited him over for dinner.”


	2. Chapter 2

Some things were not meant to be looked at directly—they were too beautiful, and it hurt. Things like the sun, the stunning pop of a burning strand of mercury, and the man who stood outside the threshold to Lord Keramzin’s fine English townhouse, his suit dark and tailored and damp at the shoulders, the rain aglow behind him from the gas lamps in the street. His features were sharp, wickedly handsome, pale skin nearly stark against dark hair, and he stood so serenely still, countenance that of a black, windless sea, a hat gently tucked under the elbow. 

He composed the portrait of a malevolent angel, that kind that struck seductive but ill-fated midnight bargains, that kind that whisked innocent young women away from their beds and their homes. Alina’s heart missed a step in its waltz.

At her side, his arm looped through hers, Lord Keramzin also seemed to shake himself out of reverie, his no doubt of a darker kind. “Mr. Morozova,” he exclaimed enthusiastically, betraying none of the turmoil that could have been brewing beneath, “right on time as always. It’s a pleasure to see you, my boy.”

Mr. Morozova inclined his head. “Likewise, sir.” His gaze, a piercing crystal gray, nearly silver, caught the candlelight from the open vestibule behind them as it settled on her. His expression didn’t falter from that of benign disinterest in the slightest, but she still found herself casting her attention elsewhere for fear that she may be staring or worse, he’d divine out her innermost thoughts.

Picking up on the subtle shift and perhaps with too much fervor, Lord Keramzin presented her forward. “Aleksander, this is my great-niece, Miss Alina Keramzin. She has freshly returned to us from the country and will be staying here in the city until next season. Alina, may I introduce Mr. Aleksander Morozova, esteemed architect. I owe him much, my home and all.”

Risking a glance at the older man and finding nothing but plastered smiles, Alina dipped her chin. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Morozova.”

He did the same. “I assure you, Miss Keramzin, the pleasure’s all mine.”

His voice was smooth and cool like a stone, like water from a spring with the way it rolled, calm and crisp. The idea of him angry, ranting or vicious was simply unthinkable. He did not have the first impression of a violent man. 

Lord Keramzin took a wide step back, taking her with him. He ushered Mr. Morozova to do the same. “Let’s not stay outside in the damp all night, else we’ll all come down with our deaths.” 

The gentleman did as he was bid, entering the dwelling and gently closing the door behind him, and satisfied his guest was thoroughly trapped, Lord Keramzin engaged him in civilized conversation as they made their way to the dining room. It was nothing but pleasant, and the dichotomy it created in her mind was troublesome—Lord Keramzin suddenly seemed as enchanted with the lovely man before them as he claimed others to be, and Morozova, as promised, was utterly enchanting. She knew nothing about designing homes and cared about the subject lesser still, but she hung on every word as if the next one or the next one might hold a celestial revelation. She, to her complete and private embarrassment, enjoyed watching his lips, which were perfectly full for those of a man’s, as he spoke. Thankfully or perhaps unfortunately, he was more preoccupied with his almost-father-in-law than her, and the risk posed to her of being caught was rendered minimal. 

The dining room was cast in a low light, the swath of cream-colored lace that covered the table gently illuminated. The cutlery and crystal sparkled, beckoning their trio further in. Lord Keramzin abandoned his post at her arm for the seat at the head of the table. It was a bit of a surprise he’d failed to pull out her chair—until she realized it was strategic. Morozova was there fast as a blink, alarmingly close to her person. She could smell the hints of his aftershave, something deep and clean and that somehow sharpened the edge of her hunger. Without a doubt, she knew she was blushing; she only hoped it was dimly lit enough for it to be invisible.

He moved the seat back in one fluid motion, and she sat, arranging the skirts of the cool-white dress she’d chosen to wear for the evening. It was satin, off the shoulders but not scandalously so, and the fabric pulled in the front, accentuating her waistline—it was one of the finer things she owned. Lord Keramzin promised to have a whole new wardrobe made for her, one to make a princess proud. That wasn’t necessary or expected, and she’d told him as much, but he was insistent. If he approached all matters with such tenacity, there was not a chance his daughter’s murder would not be brought to light.

The thought of Miss Evie’s murder was like a bucket of ice water to the senses. She sat straighter, aware of Morozova’s lithe hands so close to her as he eased the chair to its original position, moving her as if she were nothing. Without a word, he went to his own place at the table to the left of Lord Keramzin, directly across from her. It seemed there would be ample chances to analyze the suspect this evening, and he her, if he chose. 

Servants emerged from the shadows, silver cloches raised to shoulder level, and eased them to the table with practiced ease. A quick scan of their faces revealed the boy from earlier, Mal, was not among them; she briefly wondered at how he spent his evenings but chased the pointless thought away. The cloches were lifted, a richly decorated meat fumigating the expanse with its hearty, aromatic scent.

Lord Keramzin tucked a large napkin into his collar, knife and fork already in hand. “Roast duck, my favorite. The plum sauce goes marvelously with a delicate wine.” 

At the mention of wine, a serving boy filled their glasses with a sloshing, purply-red. Alina would admit, this was a fine spread, comparable in her own experience only to the Christmas dinners Mrs. Kuya would toil to host at Saint Mary’s. The dinner before them was no doubt as expensive despite it being a randomly placed Tuesday in December. Oh, the other side.

“I concur,” Morozova said, bringing the glass to his lips. Alina watched the pale column visible above his collar as he swallowed. His skin, it reminded her of a marble sculpture.

“This blasted weather,” Lord Keramzin huffed, “I loathe wet winters. Let the heavens open and snow us all in, for all I care but spare me this chilled rain.”

“It’s not good for your knees, I imagine,” Morozova hummed, seemingly concerned. 

“Beelzebub below, it isn’t.” The older gentleman tore into his roast with vigor. Around a healthily sized bite, he got out, “Evie loved winter, loved the holidays—but I suppose you recall that, don’t you?”

Alina shot her gaze to the man across from her, eager to spy any traces of emotion, of hurt, of grief, of anger—of guilt. What she found, however, was nothing; he wore the same expression of indolent pleasantry he’d had the whole evening, and that, she thought, was strange. He must’ve felt her interest, returning her scrutiny, and then he underwent a transformation. His mouth eased itself in a frown, brows drawing, features now reflecting what society would deem they were supposed to, but his eyes remained on her, curious. Alina looked away, pulse thumping at her neck.

“I do,” he hesitated for the briefest of moments, “She’d mentioned a Christmas wedding, before.” 

Lord Keramzin chewed hard and she feared he may chip a tooth. “Before,” he echoed. “Life is full of surprises, some of them most cruel.”

“Life is not cruel, sir, it is people.” Over the rim of her own glass and out of her peripheral, she could see his attention was no longer fixed on her, and she found she could breathe more deeply.

“You are right, of course, you are right,” the elder gentleman sighed. “My only wish is that I could know why she was killed—Evie never harmed anyone. Why, it must have been the doings of an irredeemable monster.”

Morozova’s cool mask had yet again descended. He cut into the meat on his plate with careful precision. “There is a multitude of reasons why men kill, all of them twisted, yes. It lends nothing to our own peace in attempting to understand them.”

Such well-chosen words. She noticed that he neither agreed nor disagreed with Lord Keramzin in saying that the person—or man, as Morozova had added—who killed Miss Evie was an irredeemable monster. Perhaps he wasn’t one to inject emotionalized terms into his language, or he found himself at odds with that description. The way he spoke… it made it seem as if he understood those twisted reasons why men kill. Or, due to the circumstances, it could be he’d given the macabre subject much thought and was speaking from experience. He had lost someone, too.

“My peace is wrecked regardless. All night I dream of her and her mother. I fear to sleep, yet I long to see their faces.” The man looked incomprehensibly sad, shrunken in on himself like collapsing paper-mâché. She felt deeply for him; though she’d been very young when she lost her parents, she’d seen this sort of shattering grief often in the girls who came to the home. Some never came back into their old selves, forever splintered by their pain. “I—I believe it is time to change the subject. What’s your next project, Aleksander? You always seem to be working.”

Morozova followed the shift without question, the epitome of composed. “An observatory for the Lantsov family. Their youngest, Nikolai, is quite taken with the sky it seems.”

Even she had heard of the affluent Lantsov family. Their sprawling home was more akin to a palace than a personal place of residence. They lived on Piccadilly, surrounded by neighbors of most lofty status. Mr. Morozova was doing well for himself indeed.

“Ahh,” Lord Keramzin intoned, “Nikolai is oft indulged—the boon of being a second son, I presume. Did you know it is I who recommended you to them?”

Morozova’s mouth twitched. “They did mention it, yes. I must offer thanks.”

The other man waved an indifferent hand. “Nonsense. You were almost my son. From here on out, I will make it my business to be in all that you do.” 

He’d said it perfectly pleasantly, but it had rendered Morozova motionless. She could not help but wonder if he suspected more of Lord Keramzin’s distrust than the older man thought. If he were a killer, that certainly made things more dangerous. She fidgeted in her seat, dabbing a napkin to the corner of her lips.

It must have caught his eye. “Miss Alina,” she froze, napkin and all—"tell me, what do you think of London?”  
She dropped the embroidered piece of cloth to her lap, willing her vocal cords to be obedient. She’d not expected him to address her directly. You’re from the country, she told herself firmly, from an estate. “I must admit, it’s much louder than I’m used to. People here seem to move about at all hours of the night.”

The corners of his mouth pulled gently. “Londoners are busy folk. I do hope your sleep isn’t being much disturbed.”

That caused her cheeks to warm. For what reason, she knew not; it was doubtful he meant anything by it. Though, he did seem to be a man who picked his words carefully. “Only a bit.” 

“Lavender tea,” he said, “it works wonders.”

Innocently, she inquired, “Do you also have troubles with easing your mind to rest?”

He was unreadable—Mr. Morozova would be the scourge of gambling dens everywhere. “From time to time.” After a moment, he added, “More so, of late.”

She ducked her chin slightly. “I’m sure.” She looked to Lord Keramzin, who seemed content to drink wine and let them speak.

“If you don’t mind my inquiring, were you and your cousin close?” he asked, inclining his head to the side, “She never spoke of you.”

She could have sworn that comment bore an edge. She could have imagined it, but she didn’t think she did. “No, I’m afraid not. We met only a few times as children. I regret not being able to know her more.”

He watched her closely. “A shame. I’m certain you two would have gotten along famously.” 

A platitude, perhaps, the expected thing to say in this situation. Either that, or he’d meant something by it. If so, only he knew what.

“Thank you,” she swallowed, “I’d like to think so.”

Lord Keramzin dropped his cutlery to the plate with a clatter. He waved the servants forward. “I think we’re all done here. Let’s have a drink in the study, shall we?” He pushed up from the table, but it was too fast, too sudden, cane toppling over and nearly him too in his efforts to chase it.

Morozova stood at once, reaching to right the older man, but he was having none of it. “Unhand me, sir.” There was genuine fury in his face, skin reddening behind his white beard. “I am not a damn invalid.”

“Of course not, sir,” Morozova said, standing back. He bore no reaction, watching coolly as Lord Keramzin struggled to pick up the cane at his feet, bending wobblily at the knees and going purple in the face. The man was in obvious pain. Alina stared at the empty space at the tablecloth where her plate had formerly been in favor of that discomforting scene.

At last, he had it in grasp, rising from that stoop with labored breath. “Mr. Morozova, as you so long to make yourself helpful, please escort Alina to the study.”

Her breath hitched in her throat as Lord Keramzin exited the dining room beat by beat of his cane on the hard wooden floor. From where he stood behind Lord Keramzin’s abandoned chair, Morozova held her gaze in a way that demanded she do the same. Her back was ramrod straight, heart thundering beneath the flesh and bone that hid it away, as he rounded the table and stopped in front of her. 

He held out a hand, exquisite face gazing down into hers. “Miss.”

She swallowed, placing her palm against his. It felt awfully intimate, no one else in the candlelit room save for the two of them after the servants’ grand and hasty retreat. His hand was neither cool nor warm, overly calloused or soft. It seemed he were to be in the calm middle of all things. 

He helped her to her feet, though she did not need the aid, and arranged her arm so that it was linked with his. His hold was intentionally loose as if he did not want her to feel constricted. Pity that being this close to him, with his polished marble demeanor and dark beauty, was constrictive in its own merit. She could look at everything but him, let alone think of anything clever or investigative to say. What a marvelous detective she was shaping up to be, halted by one cruelly good-looking murder suspect, and upon the first meeting no less.

Mr. Morozova had none of these issues to affect him, however, and deftly steered them from the dining room into the hall, pace unhurried. “I feel as if I’ve offended your uncle,” he said with a light tone, not sounding at all concerned with whether he had or not. 

Alina debated on her answer. There was a spot of great offence Lord Keramzin felt toward the young architect, much more than that of wounded pride. “He’s still grieving,” she replied, looking straight ahead. “Grieving brings out the reactionary in all of us.” 

Not all of us. The living proof of that held her arm, unless he was not grieving… but that made him other, worse things. 

“I’m sure you’re right.” 

“How did you and my cousin meet?” she asked after a moment of silent walking.

He cast her a sideways glance. “Through Lord Keramzin. He’d invited me over for dinner that evening, as well.”

Feeling as if he were open to this subject, she decided to press into it further. “Evie must’ve been quite taken with you.”

He smiled an interesting sort of smile, remembering some far away thing. “It was the other way around, in fact. She showed little interest in the beginning.”

Now that was something she scarcely believed—Mr. Morozova was handsome, intelligent, and well-to-do. Unless Miss Evie was simply attracted to her fellow high-born, which, she supposed, was not out of the question. If that were the case, she’d still fallen prey to his charms even with her innate classism in the end, and the end had come all too soon. 

She injected a bit of humor into her tone, “How did you woo her then?” 

With that smile and the mischievous glint that’d come into his clear quartz eyes, she had a feeling it probably wasn’t hard. He seemed the type of man to enjoy a challenge. “Miss Alina, are you asking me to demonstrate my skills in romance? So intrepid, for a country girl.”

The fire that lit her cheeks traveled from them to her neck and ended its journey at her chest. She had no doubt it was red as sin. “Sir, I assure you, that’s the furthest thing from my mind.”

“Oh?” His eyes made the same trek as her blush, and she thought she may die. What an unabashed rogue. “Forgive me for my assumptions.”

“I don’t think I can,” she sniffed. Had the study got up and moved itself leagues away from the dining room? Tis what it seemed.

“How will I make it up to you?” 

The better question was, how would she make it out of this with honor and wits intact? Gone was the aloof, unworldly creature who’d come in from the rain—now she had his undivided and undue attention. It made her feel woozy in the best and worst of ways.

“That will not be necessary, sir.” 

He stood close to her, so close, in fact, the entire length of her dress was pressed around his legs, and he seemed to have the intention of coming ever closer. Her heart galumphed along at an unholy pace; it could not be entirely healthy. His body was angled toward her, and she noted his jaw was so defined, it conjured images of the renaissance sculptures to mind, which made her think of nakedness, which made her feel like she was about to combust. Any Kuya would murder her, absolutely murder her, and she may deserve it. 

“I would be remiss if I left a young lady angry with me, wouldn’t I?” His hand, having been perched so gentlemanly up to this point, slid from the bare crook of her elbow to her wrist, waking her nerves up wheresoever he touched. He tugged her tenderly forward.

Alina barely had time to stop him with her palms pressed against his chest, warm even through his topcoat and the shirt beneath it. She resisted the latent urge to dig her fingernails in. “If you do that, I may become angrier still.”

He looked down into her face, head tilted and eyes sparkling in amusement. He could kiss her anyway, if he chose—they were more than close enough. “What, then, would please you?”

She felt a bit tingly all over. It was new, but not entirely unpleasant. Not unpleasant at all, adding more peril to an already perilous situation. “You may step back, please, and escort me to the study as instructed before my uncle finds us and wallops you over the head with his cane.”

He considered that, keen gaze flicking about her face, and smiled in the most innocent manner achievable by a fully-grown man before peeling himself from her person. She almost stumbled at the suddenness of it, having had her weight braced against him. He offered her a formal hand as if he hadn’t done what he’d attempted to do mere moments before, but she was disinclined to trust it. 

Righting her skirts, Alina walked ahead of him, “No, thank you.” 

He easily matched her stride, he with longer legs and her with a dress, his features unaffected by what’d transpired. “I do hope you won’t hold this against me, my dear.”

Bristling at his assumed familiarity, she did not meet his gaze. The study door loomed a few feet away, glowing from the crack beneath “And why wouldn’t I?”

“A misunderstanding. I’m afraid I got the wrong impression; usually when someone spends the better half of an evening staring at one’s mouth, well, it’s because they want it somewhere on their person.”

Alina stopped short, blinking at the outrageous man in embarrassed horror. Did he truly notice every wretched detail?

He took the opportunity granted by her stillness and re-laced their arms together. “Forgive me, truly, if I was mistaken, and if I was not, do be more specific in just where you’d like to be kissed next time. We may have better luck.” And he whisked them inside, Alina practically having a fit at his arm. 

No one—no one—had ever dared speak to her that way. It wasn’t proper for anyone to speak to anyone like that, not in any circumstance, and if Lord Keramzin wasn’t looking at them blandly, a half-finished brandy in his grasp, she would have stomped his foot and really let him have it. Maybe Miss Evie wasn’t won over by charm and flattery, maybe she was attracted to scoundrels with barbed tongues. 

Skin flushed to the point of burning, Alina disentangled herself from the man beside her, edging away until a socially appropriate distance remained. He did not stop her, hardly seemed to notice, in fact. She dug her teeth into her bottom lip.

“Get lost on the way?” Lord Keramzin asked, gaze still distant. He moved to pour a second glass for his esteemed guest.

Alina glared at the back of Morozova’s combed head. “Miss Alina and I have found we share a common interest in beautiful things, art, architecture—there’s much intermingling of the two. Some would say they’re one in the same.”

She rolled her eyes; it was a good thing the men were no longer paying attention to her, else the derision would be displayed for all to see. It was of note that Mr. Morozova was an accomplished liar, useful in manipulating unsuspecting policemen and establishing false alibis. Cornering women in dark hallways weren’t solely where his talents lay, then. 

Mr. Morozova gave a banal smile to the liquor outstretched to him, making no move to accept it. “I must decline. Thank you for the generous dinner, Lord Keramzin, but tomorrow brings me an early morning. Mustn’t leave the Lantsovs wanting.” 

Lord Keramzin slowly lowered the proffered drink to his side; she had a feeling it wouldn’t be going to waste. “Of course not. Your productivity is to be commended, sir.” 

Morozova dipped his head in recognition of the compliment. “Good evening.” He turned, regarding stare turned to her—she could feel his insistence, drawing her, slowly, to return the favor. “Miss Alina,” he took her hand, his thumb skirting across her knuckles. She inhaled sharply through her nose as he followed the gesture with his irking mouth. It was soft, tender, and quickly gone. He’d got his bloody kiss, and she wondered what it might’ve felt like against her lips rather than her hand. 

As soon as he’d risen, his gentlemanly deportment reaffirmed, she snatched her trapped appendage from his hold, pressing it tightly to her side. His lips curled up at the corners, seemingly amused at her prudish antics. 

“I hope we’ll see each other again,” he said, moving to the edge of the room. “And remember, lavender tea, so you will not be so flustered at night.” He replaced his hat, vanishing into the darkness of the hall with a muted click of the door. 

She stared at the place he’d last stood, sulking over having let him have the final word. 

Lord Keramzin seemed to be in no better spirits, downing both glasses in his hold in quick succession. He shook his head from the sting of the alcohol or of the evening. “Now do you see what I see? Do you believe him guilty of murder?”

Oh, Morozova was not an innocent man by any means, but that did not make him a killer, simply vexatious. Smoothing down her dress, she ignored the way her skin where he had touched it tingled still. “That bares more investigating, I should think. But I’ll admit, there were a few red flags raised.” She stopped, ears burning. “He doesn’t appear to be grieving as one normally would.”

“How so?”

The idea of a glass of water was raucously appealing. “I—well, he—” 

“Out with it, girl. I don’t have any youth to waste.”

At his insistence, she barreled forward. “He attempted to kiss me.”

Lord Keramzin bore no expression, features slack, blank, and then they twisted into a grin. “That is good news. Mrs. Kuya was right about you indeed.”

And she thought her skin was already ember-hot. “I had no idea the matron spoke so highly of my abilities as a seductress. I must send her a thank you card.”

“Oh, bah. None of that. If Morozova fancies you, then we’re on the right track.” He turned, going behind his desk and retrieving a small black key from inside his coat. It unlocked a drawer and from within it, he lifted out a slim rectangular box, the veneer shiny black when it caught the light, held together by a dark red ribbon. He motioned for her to come hither. “A gift for you.”

“This isn’t required, sir—” 

He thrust it into her hands. It had a light weight to it, the packaging smooth. “Open it.”

With curious fingers, she undid the silky ribbon and removed the lid. Between folds of crinkly cream-colored paper lay a knife. No—a dagger—its hilt darkly varnished and embedded with a single ruby. The blade gleamed wickedly, somehow reminiscent of Morozova’s silvery eyes. His gaze was just as sharp with the promise of ghastly things to come. 

Alina did not breathe, laden with silent question, the weight of the weapon wrong in her hands. 

“It’s petitely sized so you may disguise it on your person, strapped high on your leg or in your bodice—” he waved a hand, “It’s your choice.”

Her throat was dry. None of the things she truly wanted to voice were able to pierce the dull bubble of unease that encased her, and she asked, “What if he finds it?”

Lord Keramzin gave her a strange look. “Then you shall wield it, dear girl, you shall wield it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to popular request, I decided to upload another chapter. Tell me, do you like Victorian-adjacent Aleksander?


	3. Chapter 3

_His lips were cool along her skin, whispers hissing from in between them at the shell of her ear, down her neck and to the front of her dress. She couldn’t understand what his words meant—perhaps they were too quiet, perhaps they weren’t even English—but it did not matter. The only thing she cared for, the only thing she could think of coherently, was where his next kiss would land. It was a terrible suspense, her nerves burning on a knife’s edge._

_Hands tangled in his dark silky hair, she dared to open her eyes against the onslaught. It was a mistake. The girl at the edge of the room, the girl with the red, rusty stains drenching the front of her nightgown and ragged blonde hair, caught her gaze and held it with milk-white eyes. The blood that had burned so hotly in her turned to ice-water, a noise of protest bubbling up to catch like a hook in her throat._

_She moved her hands from his hair to his shoulders, pushing, but the man would not stop his ministrations. Teeth nipped at her collarbone, sharp enough to sting. Alina could not speak, could not move a muscle, the lower half of her body cast from lead. The man’s weight, warm and sturdy and immovable, was akin to a steel trap. Panic cloyed at her like it did an animal in a snare, rabid enough to gnaw off its own parts in the name of escape. The girl in the shadows came closer, and finally, a spell broken loose, Alina found her words._

_She wanted to scream until her throat bled, until she fell over from lack of air—until the wretched imagery around her dissipated into nothingness. Instead, she asked in a soft, breathy voice, “Who’s that?”_

_Aleksander Morozova looked up at her, mouth swollen from the cruel attention he’d lavished upon her. He cast a quick, nonchalant glance over his shoulder before resuming his work. “My wife, Evie_.”

Pain is what awoke her, a vicious stab of it in her abdomen, and Alina laid still, blinking in the gray dawn light until the things around her looked mundane and not monstrous. She was sprawled on her back in the fourposter bed in Lord Keramzin’s Green Room, the canopy looped away from the posts with decorative ties, her pulse thundering, eyes searching for something unseen to be the cause of such fear. But it was within her, in her mind and her veins—a chill that followed her from the realm of sleep into wakefulness.

Morozova.

Trying to calm herself by taking deep breaths, she recounted the dreadful details of that dreadful dream. It’d started off alright, the ache between her thighs a testament to that, but had quickly descended into horror worse than that found in the Penny Blood novels. To make matters worse, her monthly visitor had decided to come like a thief in the night with its comrade, heinous cramping.

Swinging her feet over the side of the bed, she noticed the lavender tea that she’d made the evening before still sitting neglected on the nearby dresser, the silver tray reflecting the last sliver of moonlight from the bay window. It brought a scowl to her face, memories of Morozova, not the one from her night terror but the one from dinner, to surface. He had left quite a haunting impression, but she supposed it wasn’t entirely his fault—she’d had Lord Keramzin’s fervor echoing across her mind, and that dagger…

It was tucked under the mattress, beneath her that very moment. Sleeping with a weapon that close to you was probably bad luck, or maybe the blade was cursed by a wandering gypsy to make the owner go mad with torturous dreams. Or maybe she had an overactive imagination, one of the morbid variety as Mrs. Kuya had forever claimed. Old bat, still chastising her even in absence.

Toeing into her discarded slippers and tossing on her dressing gown, she was resolved to brave the shadows of this home’s halls—it was large, lit only by candle and flickering gas lamp in the hours of darkness, and navigating its corridors was still a thing of confusion. Lord Keramzin had told her to make herself at home, which she had gleefully interpreted as permission to snoop through every room left unlocked. The lavatory, if memory served, was not far from her station in the Green Room. They could say what they would about the wealthy, but there was simply no substitute for private bathing quarters, and she intended to take full well advantage of them whilst it lasted.

The house was at rest. The only thing that seemed to be stirring within was herself and her shadow as it climbed up the papered walls ahead of her as if to serve as a guardian. There was a sinister air that clung to this place, and she wondered if Evie had ever crept along these same halls at night, breath catching in fear at every creak or groan that large dwellings so frequently uttered. With a jolt, Alina realized she’d never thought to ask where Evie had been discovered, whether it was here or elsewhere—a rather important detail to skip out on. Had her family home also been her tomb? She would have to find out.

The lavatory was close ahead, the next door on the right, but Alina found herself more concerned about the door on the left, its creaking as it swung on its hinges. Someone had left it open, someone who was still present.

She stopped moving, nearly stopped breathing, the anxiety brought on from her nightmare clawing itself again to the forefront of her system. She thought about the knife—dagger—wedged beneath her mattress, tucked away safely and completely useless to her. Footsteps emanated from that darkened room with its door ajar, the fact she was able to hear it serving as a warning of their closing distance, and yet, she was unable to move. Again, the sensations from the dream washed over her, the heavy weight of someone atop her, the feeling her legs were dead.  
Hide, her brain said, Get somewhere out of sight. But her body would not listen—it was so strange, being entirely at odds with oneself, the logical piece of her trapped in her mind screaming, and the physical her, glued to the floor. Her fingers dug into her palms on their own accord, biting against the clammy flesh hard enough to draw blood, and that pain, that bright, clear, beautiful pain pierced the hold that dread had on her.

There was not enough time to hide, and if she ran, she would be seen—so Alina moved to her left, yanking the brass candelabra from its perch on the wall above her head, the weight heavy and pulling at her arms. It could crush a skull, if brandished with enough fury. She more than likely lacked that kind of lethal strength, but she was strong enough to make it hurt and that was the plan.

The clack of boots was just around the threshold. The door scraped as it was pushed more and more open, the metal in her hands stinging against the cuts she’d made. The figure rounded the corner, a man, most probably, and Alina swung the candelabra with all her might. The arch of it took her with its force, causing her to stumble forward and lose the thing from her grasp. It careened ahead, crashing and splintering into the fine wood of the door.

The figure jerked in shock. “Nine circles of hell,” a male voice growled, “Were you trying to kill me?”

Alina took three steps back, the man took two forward, and the light hit his face. Mal, the servant boy. She felt most guilty.

A bit breathlessly, she said, “Of course not. I—I thought you might be a thief or…”

“A murderer,” he finished, tone flat.  
She crossed her arms over her chest. “Well yes—if it could happen to my cousin it could happen to anyone.” He winced, ducking his head with how she’d thrown it in his face, but she continued, having found a pocket of indignation. “Might I inquire what you’re doing prowling around at this unholy hour?”

A defiant way passed over him. “It may be an ‘unholy’ hour to you, miss, but this is when my day starts. Some of us have work to do.” He arched a brow. “Why might you be up, miss? There are still seven hours till noon.”

How quaint. He assumed because she was a lady, which she was not feeling very inclined to be at the moment, that she would sleep her day away. That she did not work. Just how she’d like to tell him she was here to solve a murder, but she could not—he may very well be a suspect, sneaking around the place at all hours, having excuse and access.

“How kind of you to let me know.” She squared her shoulders. “Because you asked so politely, I am up to take a bath, and because you’re already here, you may as well fill the tub for me.”

His jaw tightened. “A bath?”

She raised both her brows, conjuring an expression of innocence. “I assume you take them?”

He’d very nearly said something back to that but managed to bite his tongue at the final moment. “Of course, miss.”

“Good,” she wrapped her dressing gown around her more tightly, flouncing past him toward the lavatory. “And please, do something about that ghastly hole in the door—uncle will have a fit if he is to see it.”

After the unpleasant and embarrassing wee morning hours had passed, Alina found herself with little to occupy her. Lord Keramzin had gone out to do who knew what, promises of being back by supper trailing behind him as he’d ventured into the daylight that was at once both gray and bright. She’d wanted to ask him a few more questions about Evie, about Morozova, about all of it, but it would have to wait. Waiting was not her strong suit.

The only other soul she knew in the house was Mal. Obnoxious he may be, it was not out of the realm of possibility he could have knowledge concerning the mystery at hand. Deciding at last to seek him out, even after what had transpired in the pre-dawn, she found him in the service kitchen downstairs, poking around in the pantry. His hair and shoulders were drenched in a fine white powder, all evidence pointing to the fallen flour bag busted at his feet. He was muttering lowly to himself, unaware of being watched.

Leaning against the pantry entrance, she tsked. “And you told me you bathed. Certainly doesn’t look like it.”

He whirled, face pasted ghostly white from the particles that clung to it. Through the coating, his scowl was unmistakable. “It’s flour.”

“Are you going to batter yourself up then?”

He shook like a dog, a cloud of white puffing up in the air around them. “No. What might you need now, miss? Don’t tell me you’ve concussed the cook.”

“How amusing.” She flicked a bit of the flour dust from her sleeve. “I actually wanted to ask you a few questions about my late cousin. It pains me to say she and I weren’t very well acquainted, and I’d like to know more about her.”

Mal skirted his gaze away. “I only work here—I couldn’t tell you anything.”

His behavior was skittish, and she was determined to press it. “Come now, you must have noticed something. Did she frequently go out? Did she have many visitors, friends?”

“She was close with a girl named Zoya, dark-haired, lovely.” He pinked about the cheeks. “Not so lovely in personality, though.”

Finally, someone who might know Evie’s true feelings about one enigmatic murder suspect. “Does this lovely Zoya have a surname?”

“I don’t know it. Excuse me for saying so, but there are about a million more interesting things to keep up with than London’s haughty families.”

Mal seemed to harbor an obvious dislike for the upper-crust. Motivated out of real malice or not, it was worth considering he could have decided to act upon those feelings of spite. He didn’t look like a person who could commit such a horrid deed, boyish and covered in baking supplies, but who decided what criminals looked like? Morozova was Adonis walking, and yet Lord Keramzin swore he was the devil in disguise.

Alina almost turned to leave him to his mess but decided to open one more line of inquiry. “Was Evie personable? Did she seem kind?”  
Mal’s face told her everything his lips refused to, and it did not speak to Miss Evie’s kindness. “I only work here,” he said again. “I didn’t much know her.”

Lord Keramzin, true to his word, arrived shortly before the evening meal was to be served. Alina waited in the foyer at the end of the grand staircase to apprehend him as soon as he entered the house. She was bursting with curiosity and unspent energy from being cooped up and mostly alone the entire day, and now her investigation had a lead. The handle turned, the door swung in, and the gentleman waltzed through, as much as a person with a cane could waltz.

At seeing her loitering at the stairs, Lord Keramzin raised his brows as he removed his top hat and gloves. “Good evening, Alina dear—I hope you haven’t been waiting there all day.”

“Of course not.” She gestured vaguely back into the rest of the home, “I’ve been up to this and that, discussing things with Mal.”

“With Mal?” He frowned, “Do let me know if that boy raises any trouble. He is a character, I tell you. Took him in off the streets and still, I receive only a thread of gratitude.”

What Lord Keramzin seemed to be missing out on was Mal’s distaste for his ‘kind,’ but she wasn’t going to be the one to tell him.

“Oh no, he’s perfectly pleasant—” at Lord Keramzin’s skeptical features she rushed to add, “for someone of his station, that is—but he did mention a name to me. A young lady called Zoya? He said she and Evie were close.”

He smiled ruefully. “Quite, those two were thick as thieves, try as I might to wrest them apart.” At the look of questioning that comment received, he continued, “Zoya is from a distinguished family, the Nazyalenskys, but sometimes no matter how good the name the apple can still fall far from the tree.”

“Has Zoya been disowned by her family?”

“Heavens no. Her father would never, she has that man twisted about her wee, mischievous finger, an only child to boot. If she were my daughter—” He cut himself off abruptly. “I simply did not wish for her renegade nature to rub off on my Evie.”

From the sound of things, if anyone knew what Evie’s inner-workings were, it would be this infamous Zoya. As a father, Lord Keramzin thought his daughter to be made of nothing but virtue and light, but from Mal’s implication and the type of friendships she held, Alina was beginning to have her doubts, not that she would ever voice them to the grieving creature before her.

“Is it possible we could call upon the Nazyalenskys? If Evie was afraid of someone, if she’d been threatened prior to her death, she may have confided in Zoya.”

Fingers tapping the engraved silver filigree at the top of his cane, he appeared to be mulling it over. “I suppose we could. I am well acquainted enough with her parents to make a purely social call, and I’m sure they’d be all too thrilled to present Zoya with another young lady her age. A proper young lady.”

Whether her personal level of propriety was great enough to sway someone from their rambunctious ways, she was all for this meeting and the insights it may reveal. In particular, the excitement she felt at the prospects of gleaning new information on a certain silver-eyed architect was quite acute.

“Might we call on them tomorrow?”

* * *

The Nazyalensky residence was a fine and stylish place, but it would have been even more lovely in the months of spring, the line of barren trees edging the perimeters of the property giving the scenery a bit of a foreboding tincture once cast alongside the gray sky. Keeping her pace slow to give Lord Keramzin a chance to climb the stairs up to the front porch without having an accident, Alina fiddled with the lace trimming about the wrists of her gloves. Another qualm she held with the colder season in addition to its somber color scheme—one was forced to dress accordingly. Thicker drawers, thicker jackets, thicker gloves, and much more time spent readying oneself overall. Winter hated women and she returned the sentiment.

A bit out of breath, his cheeks merry red, Lord Keramzin reached the porch, raising his own gloved hand to gently rap the knocker against the darkly varnished door. A few beats past and he moved to do it again, but the surface was pulled inward, a gray-haired woman in a housekeeper’s dress nearly eye-level with his fist.

He lowered it. “Apologies, madame. I sent my calling card over earlier—Keramzin?”

She nodded, “The man of the house is expecting you. Do come in.”

The woman beckoned them inside, and Alina was most grateful to be in out of that cold. The foyer of the Nazyalensky home reminded her of Lord Keramzin’s in its splendor, but with softer, more airy colors. Perhaps someone with less of a flair for the dramatic built it.

“If you’ll follow me, please,” the housekeeper said, heading toward an open doorway, unknown voices spilling out from the room.

They trailed after the woman into a parlor, the windows allowing generous amounts of light to stream in from between blue silken drapes. The settee was also a magnificent royal blue, and upon it laid sprawled out with shining locks of ebony dangling to the floor was the second most beautiful person Alina had ever seen. Her skin was pale, her azure tea gown shades lighter but complementary to the soft surface beneath her—she matched the parlor, right down to the ethereal, untouchable aspects of it. Zoya, no doubt.

In two straight-backed chairs across from her sat a man and a woman, both attractive for their ages. The woman, presumably Zoya’s mother, wore her own dark hair piled on top of her head, slender neck gracefully revealed.

The woman snapped her fingers. “Zoya, sit up. We have company.”

Swinging her legs to the floor and yawning from the labor of it, Zoya slouched back against the settee, expression finely blended between disinterest and keen awareness.

The man stood, shaking Lord Keramzin’s hand. “It’s a pleasure as always, Grigori.”

“Likewise.” Lord Keramzin turned to Alina, “I’m honored to present my niece, Alina Keramzin.”

The man inclined his head. “Charmed, Miss Keramzin. I am Hiram Nazyalensky. There is my wife, Sabina, and my lovely daughter, Zoya.”

As if on cue, the black-haired girl yawned yet again. She was either deliriously tired, or she wished to make it known how loathsomely boring she found this whole encounter. From the way her sculpted nose seemed to be in the air, it was more than likely the latter.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, dear,” Sabina said. “Zoya, do say hello.”

Zoya’s eyes flashed at being commanded around like an animal at a show but opted to comply for the moment. “Hello.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Alina replied. She had the slightest of feelings plying Zoya for information about Evie was not going to be as easy as she had hoped. In fact, she was probably in for a rather onerous afternoon.

Sabina Nazyalensky was hard-pressed to defend against any awkward silences that may descend. “Lord Keramzin,” she began enthusiastically, “Hiram and I have had the great fortune of recently replacing our fine china. Oh, that last set was so old and so dreary. It was high time, I think—past due, really. Isn’t that correct, Hiram?”

“That’s correct,” he supplied blandly.

“The new set has only just arrived—it’s still in the packaging and everything—all the way from East Asia. Would you like to see it?”

Lord Keramzin’s mustache wobbled. “I—well—I suppose. It did come such a far way to remain unappraised.”

“Marvelous. Zoya, keep Miss Alina company whilst we inspect the china. We’ll only be a moment or two.”

Zoya did not comment as the adults filed out of the parlor, but simply held Alina’s gaze in what seemed to be a challenging manner. What the challenge was, she hadn’t the faintest idea, so it was no great loss to let the other opponent win. This was an opportunity to speak to her without the others interjecting, at least.

She gently cleared her throat. “My uncle tells me you were dear friends with Evie.”

Zoya blinked at her. “What of it?”

What of it, indeed. She struggled to find the words to phrase a question appropriately. “I was wondering if you knew her state of mind…before—“

“Before she was murdered in cold blood?” Zoya’s nostrils flared, “Such an unpleasant thing I’ve toiled with valiantly to put behind me, and yet, here you are digging it back up.”

“I’m sorry—”

“No, you’re not. You’re one of those people who like to pick at scabs to see what morbid little details they might uncover, to see what blood might remain underneath. You and Evie have that in common, at least.”

Alina held her tongue, not quite sure what to make of that. Had Evie and Zoya been on unfriendly terms before she died? That last comment implied such, but what scabs, as Zoya had called it, had Evie picked at?

“I am sorry,” she said, genuinely, “I shouldn’t have brought that up to you.”

Zoya looked to her nails, ire replaced by disregard. “No matter. I’m used to it—Evie is all anybody talks about, these days. You can sit, you know.”

Choosing the upholstered chair abandoned by Hiram, she gingerly sat. “Thank you.”

“I see what my parents hope to accomplish by leaving the two of us together. You’re Evie’s replacement,” she flicked her careless gaze over Alina, “a shoddy one, at that, but a replacement none the less. They’re tired of my moping around their house, I suppose. I say we give the old bags what they want.”

Trying not to take offense to being termed a ‘shoddy replacement,’ she crossed her hands in her lap. “How so?”

At that, she showed the first bit of genuine interest since they’d entered the parlor. “I have a meeting with someone at the park a few blocks away from here, easily walkable if one hurries, but” she made a face, “as I am deemed, oh, untrustworthy, I’ll never be permitted to go alone. So we say we’ve hit it off, that we want to go on a stroll. My parents, seeing as how my spirits have lifted, will say ‘yes, you may go, but only if you take Bertie.” She gestured dismissively to the hall, “Bertie’s my old governess, she’s half blind and terribly old—easily escapable. Do you see where this is going?”

She did—didn’t know if she liked where it was going—but she saw it.

Zoya took her mute nod as consent to the scheme. She clapped her hands. “Perfection. Come with me to my room; I’ll have to change into something appropriate or we’ll never get out that door.”

Zoya’s room was blueberries and cream. There was no other way to describe it—frills of white silk, blue satin, and mother of pearl inlaid in the trim created a girlish wonderland. It made nothing but perfect sense she saw it fit to behave like an overindulged princess when she was so obviously raised like one.

Without a care in the world for her modesty, Zoya deftly undid the ribbons at the back of her tea-gown and flung it off over her head. In her thin chemise and short drawers, she stood at the front of her armoire as confidently as if she were a captain at the helm of a ship, hands perched on thin hips and eyes cast with determination into the beyond. The beyond, in this case, being the obscene amount of dresses and garments strung and stacked and rolled in front of them.

“It’s always so difficult to choose,” she said.

Feeling very nearly jealous, Alina replied, “I imagine so.”

Pursing her lips, she reached forward, slipping a seafoam green dress with a single silken ribbon at the base of each long sleeve from its hanger. She held it up in front of her form, watching her reflection twirl a long strand of black hair in the full-length mirror across from them as she smoothed down the fabric. Alina was there, too, off to the side, her own dress a darker green, her hair pulled back and light brown, less beautiful in nearly every way. She found could not look away from Zoya’s tiny, pale waist. She was quietly in awe of the girl before her.

Zoya caught her eye in the mirror. “Simple muslin, high collar. It should satisfy my harpy of a mother. Help me with these laces.”

She did as she was bid, cinching the garment up the back and finally tying the ribbon that sat at the end of the spine where corset met skirt. Or where corset would meet skirt, had Zoya been wearing one. A strategic maneuver—it was difficult to escape one’s chaperone while feeling the lungs may collapse.

As she finished, Zoya swooped her hair up into an artfully messy bun, her neck as light and elegant as her mother’s. “Perfect. We’re ready to be off.”

* * *

The Nazyalenskys were delighted at Zoya and Alina’s quick friendship, commending Lord Keramzin on his well-manner niece while he smiled with thinly veiled suspicion. She hoped that he understood her running off with Zoya was another part of the investigation, not her throwing in the towel in favor of rebellion. She would explain her reasoning once she returned, strictly before dinner as he had said. Zoya’s grip was firm on both her and Bertie’s arm, a ruefully old woman whose face was so lined she brought to mind the image of a gnarled, soft-spoken oak tree, as she directed them out the door.

“Oh, we’ll have a joyous time,” she called back to her parents, “Don’t you worry. The fresh air is making me feel better already—farewell, until later!”

Rounding the street corner, the clopping of hooves and clanking of coach wheels sounding from the business of the road, Zoya halted. “Bertie,” she began earnestly, “How about some evening tea? The Richfield Tea House is just there; I know how you love those little cakes.”

As the elder woman peered to the storefront of Richfield’s longingly, Alina couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt at what they planned to do. Bertie obviously cared for Zoya, and Zoya obviously intended to take advantage of that in any way she could.

“Alright,” Bertie nodded, the feathers on her little hat catching the breeze, “I suppose a tea break never hurt a soul. Come now, girls—let us be careful in crossing the street.”

Over Bertie’s head and in between the feathers, Zoya grinned at Alina, a devilish gleam in her lovely blue eyes. “Of course.”

They crossed the street without too much fanfare, luckily not being hit at the snail’s pace they’d held. Once in front of Richfield’s, Zoya groaned, face pressed to the glass. “Look at how full it is! Why, there’s not an empty table.”

From the sound of her voice, one would think Zoya’s heart was most surely crushed by the prospects at not acquiring a table for evening tea, an accomplished actress, it would seem.

Bertie patted Zoya’s gloved hand. “There there, dear. I’ll get us a table.”

Zoya beamed. “I knew you would take care of it, Bertie, you always do. But you know I hate crowds; may Alina and I wait here while you get everything settled?”

The woman’s brow crinkled in concern. “You may, but please stay where I can see you. I don’t want anything happening to you girls.”

Alina cast her gaze away from Bertie’s kind, mousy eyes. This was a cruel trick to play and she didn’t fancy having a part in it.

Zoya kissed Bertie’s cheek. “Wonderful! We’ll be right here.”

Bertie entered the tea house, the bell twinkling merrily at the swinging of the door. It closed behind her, and they watched as she worked her way through the throngs of tea drinkers with surprising ability. She flagged down a gentleman in a suit, a proprietor of some kind, and he leaned down to hear her soft voice speak above the clamor. She was effectively distracted.

Zoya grabbed Alina’s hand, nearly tugging it free from the wrist as she turned about and made haste down the walk in the opposite direction.

“That was quite rude,” Alina barked, the cold air burning her throat as she ran to keep up.

“Oh, Alina, don’t be a wet blanket. You knew what we were going to do. Besides, Bertie’s practically lost her wits—she’ll have forgotten us in a moment’s time.”

Because abandoning an ill, elderly woman on a busy corner of London was oh so much better. Stars, by the time this outing was over their last stop would have to be at a confessional. Zoya, no doubt, would feel no shame spitting out untruths even in the face of a priest. It was starting to become apparent why Lord Keramzin did not wish she and Evie to spend extended amounts of time together. He probably feared her immortal soul would be in danger.

A stitch of pain set in between her ribs and she exhaled hard. “I thought—” she breathed in, “you said this park was within an easily walkable distance. What, pray tell, happened to walking?”

Not slowing a bit, Zoya pointed, “It is—look.”

She looked. Indeed, a large swath of unindustrialized land sat enclosed behind wrought-iron bars, the many trees within beckoning with their twisted, finger-like branches. The sun, through the overhanging ashen puffs of cloud, glazed over the surface of a considerably sized pond in the center. There appeared to be few visitors, most deterred by the cold and the gloom. Most, but not all.

“Sweet Mary, finally.”

“You need to get more exercise,” Zoya said with one dark brow arched high, “It’s good for you, physicians say.”

“Physicians also used to bleed people dry as a cure-all.”

She rolled her eyes. “Come on.”

They entered the park, the steps of their heeled boots making muted thuds on the pale stone path that snaked past empty benches and well-groomed shrubbery.

Doubts were beginning to form in her mind concerning the reliability of the mysterious stranger Zoya had implied she was meeting. The noise from the street faded to dulled whispers as they made their way to the heart of the park, and still not one sign of anyone Zoya would be remotely interested in. Close to vocalizing these thoughts, it was for the better she was interrupted.

“Zoya!” a bright voice carried over the expanse with the gentle chill of the wind.

Zoya’s attention shifted, her back straightening as she turned to see who’d beckoned her. Alina did the same, line of sight easily snagged by the man up ahead of them, his hand raised above his blond head of hair, waving as if to compel them closer. Even from this distance, the rich blue of the suit he wore seemed to emanate—it must be an interesting sort of person to make give off warmth. They made their way off the path and into the stiff grass too where the gentleman in blue stood near the base of an old tree, its branches made bare, appearing to sag under its own weight. It was a morose tree, the jubilant figure beneath it vibrating with all the vitality it lacked.

Once they were close enough where yelling was no longer necessary, Zoya, brows raised, eyes narrowed in thinly veiled suspicion, asked, “Nikolai? What on God’s not so green earth are you doing here?’

This Nikolai’s eyes danced. There was no other way to describe them, color in motion, golds and greens and brown, sparkling gems. These dancing eyes fell upon her.

He pushed a strand of honey-colored hair that had been discarded by the breeze back from his forehead. “Are you not happy to see me?” his voice was kind, light and airy. “I’ve been waiting here in the frigid cold for you, and this is all the thanks I get. Who’s your lovely friend?”

She nodded politely. “Alina.”

Nikolai bent, bowing from the waist and extending his arm with a flare of grandeur. “Charmed. I am Nikolai L…” he stopped, a boyish grin appearing, “just Nikolai, since we’re not brandishing last names.”

Zoya was derisive. “Might I present Evie’s long-lost cousin, Alina Keramzin. Alina, Nikolai Lantsov. Yes, those Lantsovs, the ones with more money than lucifer. I’m sure you’re very pleased to meet each other.”

Nikolai rubbed the back of his neck. “Lucifer tried to sue, but alas, we have the superior solicitor.”

She snorted in genuine amusement, earning her a look of disgust from Zoya. “You must have quite the solicitor to emerge victorious against the forces of evil.”

“Oh, yes. If you look closely once he removes his hat, you can see little horns of his own sprouting through.”

“As much as I love going on about your solicitor’s anatomy, Nikolai,” Zoya interjected, “I must ask, how did you discover I was going to be here in the park at this precise moment? Surely you’ve not resorted to stalking me.”

Alina looked to Zoya, tongue held in curiosity. She was under the impression they’d trekked out here so Zoya could fulfill some sort of clandestine rendezvous. If not with Nikolai Lantsov, a boy who resembled a lost child of the summer fae, then with whom?

Nikolai cast his gaze towards the massive tree behind him. “Well, I was informed, of course.”

“Informed?” Zoya’s voice rose by marked increments, “By who?”

A flash of something on the other side of the trunk caught her eye but before she could hypothesize what form of beast it may be, a man materialized from around it, his charcoal suit nearly the exact color of the dark withered bark. His eyes, also gray but lighter, shone like glittering precious stones, and they struck her with their pining familiarity. Even without that, his was a face she would recognize anywhere.

“Morozova.”

She hadn’t realized she’d spoken aloud until she felt Zoya’s gaze, sharp and prodding.

“You’re acquainted?”

Morozova wore an expression that brokered none of the explanation demanded by her tone. After it became obvious Alina wasn’t going to be the one to offer it either, he said at last, “We’ve had the pleasure. Dinner at the Lord Keramzin’s home. Just this past Tuesday evening, wasn’t it, Miss Alina?”

He knew very well it had been Tuesday evening, unless he was truly a man of absent mind. She doubted that. Forgetfulness was not a character trait that reconciled itself to his person.

“Yes,” she replied, “I believe it was.”

He smiled in a manner that didn’t demand for much of the rest of his face to move. “How fortuitous to meet again so soon. Making fast friends with London’s finest, I see.”

“So it would seem.”

Having been out of the loop for quite long enough, Zoya bristled at her side. “Aleksander, you invited Nikolai along?”

The men exchanged an innocent glance. “It was a happy coincidence we came across each other while I was headed over. Fitting, though—our party is evenly matched.”

“That it is,” Zoya agreed, though the creases near her mouth indicated she remained less than pleased. She seemed the type of girl who was loath to allow her schemes to be trifled with. Showing resilience to also be among the many tools in her arsenal, she marched up to Morozova and took his arm, threading it with hers. “I do so love a party. Nikolai,” she crooned his name, “walk with Alina, won’t you? Wouldn’t want the poor dear getting lost.”

Disappoint flashed across Nikolai’s features quick as a bolt of lightning, then it was gone, covered with the kind of smile usually reserved for billboard advertisements. He took her gloved hand, placed a chaste kiss upon it, and linked their arms. “Never fear, Miss Keramzin. I shall defend your honor against any fiends who may be lurking.”

She lifted a brow with no real condescension. “Fiends in a park? My, what kind are those?”

“The absolute worst. Murderers and miscreants and cucumber sandwich thieves. I shudder at the thought.”

“Then I’m glad to have you, Mr. Lantsov.” Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Zoya edging Morozova forward. He offered no resistance to her eagerness, the picture of poise, nodding along with the bare minimum of polite interest to whatever she was telling him. In that moment, he reminded her of an indulgent but absent parent, the kind Zoya was accustomed to. She doubted Zoya had anything remotely parental in mind where Mr. Aleksander Morozova, esteemed architect, most eligible bachelor, suspect of heinous murder, was concerned. If both girls, Zoya and Evie, had eyes for the man, well…. People had been killed out of jealous rage before, and Ms. Nazyalensky seemed singularly gifted at getting her way.

Nikolai wrinkled his nose. “Please, call me Nikolai. My father is Mr. Lantsov, and my brother, and my uncles, my grandfather. There’s quite a few of them. Please, not me too.”

She allowed him to set the pace of their walking. “Alright, Nikolai. Tell me, how long have you known Zoya?”

His eyes flicked to the form of the dark-haired girl up ahead of them on instinct. “Since childhood. In this neighborhood, you circulate within the same pool for the entirety of your life, a goldfish in a gilded bowl, around and around.” He chuckled at that, some sort of inside joke. “Zoya’s sick of the bowl, I think. Something shiny and new’s caught her eye.”

Alina looked to the straight line of Morozova’s shoulders. “And do you know what our late Evie thought of that?”

Nikolai drew himself up, tense with the barest vestiges of a frown that threatened to overtake his easy grin. He succeeded in suppressing it. “They were too great of friends than to let a thing as silly as that come between them.”

Were they now.

For the moment, she decided to let that subject slide. “And you, Nikolai, how do you intend to escape the bowl?”

An immense look of mischief replaced his earlier weariness. “Who says I haven’t escaped it already?”

“Have you? But you’re still in the neighborhood.”

He tapped his temple. “Not in here—I’ve got dreams, Miss Alina, ones that will take me places much different to this.”

Oh, so he was the revolutionary sort, the kind with eyes big enough you could see the whirring of the cogs behind them. Alina liked those think-it-up-and-make-it-real breeds of people, though she’d only read about them before, in novels and in the papers. Not much ambition to be found in the halls of an orphanage for girls.

“What kind of dreams?”

He peered at her, a hesitance about him that seemed almost uncharacteristic. “Don’t allow me to bore you with all that. What about your dreams? A girl like you has to have them aplenty. Do you want to marry a count? Live happily all your days in a castle on a hill with little Alinas running about your cozy, slippered feet?”

She allowed herself to scowl plainly, and Nikolai raised his brows. “You don’t like castles?”

“Castles are dressed up prisons for the wives of counts and princes. They find themselves locked in the towers.”

“Then you’ll need a fine knight to spring you out.”

“Why can’t I be the knight?”

He held her gaze, those dancing eyes doing what they did best. “Dame Alina, I suppose that has a ring to it, and if I ever find myself in a tower, I can trust you to set me free.”

“So you’re the princess, then?”

He laid his hand over the top of hers and gave it a pat. “Darling, I’ve always been the princess. I only wanted to spare your feelings.”

Nikolai seemed a man tailor-made for pulling out genuine smiles from others like a magician would from a hat. She hadn’t known what to expect from the son of one of the wealthiest families in London, but he’d won her over in minutes.

“How thoughtful of you, princess.”

He pursed his lips into a markedly demure smile. “Your gratitude is appreciated, brave knight.”

A sizeable distance had arisen between the pairs as they walked. Zoya had directed Morozova to a romantic pergola built over the frozen pond at the heart of the park. They leaned against the railing, their faces close together as they spoke in hushed tones.

Nikolai noticed, too, his smile twitching once, twice, and then he said, “Let’s see what the darker half of our party has gotten up to, shall we?”

Zoya and Morozova looked up as she and Nikolai approached. Zoya wore a healthy, pleased blush across her cheeks. Morozova…well, he appeared as he always did—close to perfect and unmoved, the bastard.

“In the midst of a stimulating conversation, were you?” Nikolai inquired pleasantly.

“As always,” Zoya supplied, quick-tongued. “I’m sure Alina has had loads of thrilling things to revel you with concerning rural life.”

“Loads.” Nikolai said, “Probably about as thrilling as house-building, I would say.”

Morozova did not rise to take the barb. He reclined comfortably back, elbows propped against the wooden barrier behind him. Instead, he addressed her. “How have you been sleeping, Alina? Better, I hope.”

“Wonderfully,” she lied, “The lavender tea does exactly what it’s heralded to do.”

“How lovely. You do appear more rested. It suits you.”

Zoya pointed suddenly, a gasp tearing free from her throat. All eyes fell on her. “Look! Look in that tree—it’s a feather the size of my arm!” It was, in fact, a rather large feather, stuck in a branch that hung in the middle of the tree. She tugged at the sleeve of Morozova’s suit, “Can you get it for me? It’s not that high.”

Morozova studied her face, his own perfectly empty. After a moment, he smiled. “You’re right, Zoya, it’s not that high, but what do I get in return?”

Nikolai shifted beside her, silent and unamused.

Zoya appeared to be thinking very hard on it. “How about a kiss?”

Alina wanted to inform her that he didn’t need to bargain for those, he just took them.

“Very well. The feather is yours,” Morozova said, sounding every bit the serious man of business that he made himself out to be, slipping free from his overcoat and hanging it over the railing beside Zoya. “Nikolai, how about a bit of friendly competition?”

Nikolai and Zoya both turned as frozen as the pond in front of them.

“And what do you mean by that?” Nikolai asked.

“Nothing nefarious— a race to reach the feather. The one who gets there first, he receives the reward. It’s as simple as that.”

Zoya seethed, Nikolai mulled it over, and Alina had to stifle a laugh. Morozova ruined Zoya’s little game, turned her from queen to pawn. It had to bite.

“Alright,” Nikolai said at least. He took leave of his coat as well, laying it near the other. He rubbed his hands together to create friction against the cold. “When do we start?”

“Zoya, if you’d be so kind as to count us off.”

Zoya swallowed. “Fine. One. Two. Three. Four. Five—go.”

They went, racing across the path, across the grass, over the roots and to the tree like a couple of schoolboys. And they must have been rambunctious schoolboys—both seemed to be agile climbers.

“Dear God,” Zoya sniffed, “how ridiculous.”

“This was your idea,” Alina laughed, enjoying the spectacle before her perhaps a bit too much. Watching Morozova having to work at anything—scaling a tree, of all things—was without a doubt the highlight of her evening. Bloody hell, her whole week.

“This is your doing, you know.”

“How so?”

Zoya tore her gaze free of the men invading the home of the squirrels, who squeaked angrily and zipped higher into the branches where they could watch with elevated indignation. “He’s awfully distracted by you. I had to do something.”

She felt like being difficult. She widened her eyes, put a hand to her chest, “Nikolai? But we’ve only just met.”

Zoya’s nostrils flared. “You know who I’m talking about. Don’t play daft.”

“I’m not playing at anything. I have no association with Mr. Morozova outside of that of a short acquaintanceship—he was betrothed to my dead cousin, but you’ve seemed quick to put that out of your mind.”

Zoya said nothing, features pinched tight in acute displeasure. She leaned forward, raised her arm, and Alina was certain she was going to be slapped across the face. The pain never came—instead, she found herself sailing backward, frame striking against the wooden railing. Zoya had pushed her. The fall should have adjourned there, but it continued, and she realized with a sickening jolt, the splintered wood escaping her grasp on either side, that the railing had broken with her weight. She fell until she hit the ice, and the ice broke, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Shadow and Bone Netflix series has been cast. You guys, the Darkling is BEN BARNES. Ben freakin' Barnes. Dorian Gray's Ben Barnes. Ben Barnes is the Darkling! Is anyone else excited yet or is it just me?
> 
> Leigh's new novel, Ninth House, which is sooo good and freaky and raw, is also being turned into an Amazon original series. My favorite author is killing life, you guys. I am so happy for her. That is all.
> 
> Oh, yeah - please comment your thoughts! I love hearing from you all. How is your autumn going? Any big Halloween plans? 
> 
> Now, that is all. Until next time!


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